


Heatstroke

by threewalls



Series: Schirra [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: 689 OV, Friendship, Gen, Hiking, Hurt/Comfort, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Pre-Game(s), Sunburn, Westersand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-02
Updated: 2007-11-02
Packaged: 2017-10-15 10:25:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>"I should have kept a closer eye on you."</cite></p>
            </blockquote>





	Heatstroke

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynndyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/gifts).



Basch is used to rockier trails than this, but you could not tell from the luck he is having placing his steps. He stumbles, once, and again, and it is something more inevitable than fate that Vossler should glance back down the trail just as Basch's hand goes out against the rock to steady himself a third time.

"I should have kept a closer eye on you."

Vossler pushes Basch back against a shady lee in the sandstone cliff, then holds him steady, sinking with him, as Basch's legs collapse all too gratefully out from underneath him. In Landis, the wind off the mountains melted the snow, but in Dalmasca, he has discovered, it seeks to melt the people.

Vossler shrugs off his pack, and strips Basch of his and also his green uniform shirt, muttering under his breath about dim-witted barbarians with no respect for the desert. He tips water from his canteen onto a small cloth, which he presses between Basch's sweat-clumped hair and his neck, and then hands the canteen to Basch.

"Drink slowly," he warns. "Small sips."

Basch's stomach agrees with Vossler, churning fitfully at what little tepid liquid he manages, but the cloth feels good. He lets Vossler move him, to pass the cloth under his arms and under his knees.

Basch shivers, as the air hits where the cloth has been. It feels good. So does the slow movement of the damp cloth itself, the solid stone behind his back, and the shade from Vossler's body stretched over him. Vossler continues to speak, dire threats mixed with insults to Basch's upbringing, the growl to his words as soothing as the cool, dry sand under Basch's palms.

"Is it that bad?" he asks.

Vossler releases the cloth, which slides down to rest at the waistband of Basch's shorts.

"Basch, you're pink like a _pitaya_ fruit, and you were-- far too well covered to have burnt."

Vossler's palm feels cool against Basch's forehead, if not as cool as the cloth. When Basch tells him so, Vossler scowls and removes his hand; Basch's head follows before he catches it.

Vossler raises his hands together above his head, closing his eyes. There's a clap like dry thunder, and a rain of ice that melts to cool water before it reaches them.

"That's one spell every Knight in the Order knows."

"I know it," Basch avows. Though they are knights together, it has been mere months since Vossler has not resented Basch for his relative youth and equal skill in the training salle. They are not equals in the desert, nor has Vossler let him forget that this is so, but over the eastern hills and dunes, Basch had never fallen so far behind.

Vossler pushes Basch's outstretched arm down. "I would not wish to see you try to cast it."

He takes back the canteen, pressing it to the cloth and grimacing at its low volume. Vossler has explained water rationing each time they step outside Rabanastre. Water is precious here. Every drop they will drink, they carry with them, and every drop must be accounted for.

"My canteen," Basch says. "It has water."

"You--" Vossler grabs for Basch's own canteen, thrusting it into his hand. "Then drink. If you wait for thirst, you will die of it."

Basch drinks; Vossler reaches up to send another ice-shower scattering down upon them. It feels colder this time, and when Vossler shifts from kneeling to sit beside him, Basch can distinguish the heat from the other man's body from his own.

"You must tell me before the heat touches you like this. There is a small spring further along the trail, but if you were to need a healer-- I am all that you could find. If you cannot walk, I cannot carry you. We will wait, for dusk if need be."

"I can walk." For if he must, Basch will, but Vossler ignores him. He picks up Basch's discarded shirt.

"I don't know whether to admire your fortitude, Basch, or condemn your folly. But, I will teach you to dress Dalmascan before we come here again, even if I have to buy the clothes myself."

Basch thanks him, for the offer and his aid; Vossler grunts, shrugs, and looks to the horizon.

"Who else would I find foolish enough to hike in the Westeranges?"

Below, the dunes stretch golden to where they meet the plains, dry, and very brown. The sky is very blue. It is a view Basch is learning to appreciate.


End file.
